This is my gun (there are many like it, but this one is mine)
by Lassroyale
Summary: Dean knows that the future is vastly different, but it's only when he catches Cas on his knees sucking down on the barrel of a .45, that he realizes how much has really changed. [NOTE: Updated and edited as of 11/9/13]


**A/N:** So, I accidentally deleted this fic when I was trying to make an edit, heh. _ Still, this fic has been edited from its original version for flow, as well as to flesh out a few scenes. I hope you enjoy it!

**-VVV-**

The future, Dean thinks, is a pretty fucked up place on all accounts. It's stark and harsh, the landscape painted in post-Apocalyptic shades of gray that sting the eyes with windswept grit. He doesn't quite know how to navigate through it; he's unsure of how it's supposed to feel on his skin as ashy snow rains down from the sky. When Dean looks up, the sun looks dead.

Perhaps the biggest difference is in his own attitude, well, future Dean's attitude - and how fucked up is that? - and in the fact that Castiel is now just Cas, a mere fucking human. His smile hurts Dean; there's disappointment and pain in the furrows of his laugh lines when he grins, sharp and biting. There's nothing of the simplistic joy or honest discontent he's used to seeing in real Castiel's eyes, because no matter what anyone says, this one - this just Cas - is not his. This one is a doppelganger, just like future-Dean is a doppelganger: not real; could never be real. Should never be real.

He watches, his skin fitting incorrectly (crawling) as future-Dean and not-Cas goosestep around one another in an edgy, angry dance. Dean sees the way this future Castiel looks at him with sadness in his eyes, as if he's just not seeing what he's supposed to see. It frustrates him, so he avoids the two of them (his future self and his immutable anger; not-Cas and the painful ache ground into curve of his brittle grin) for as long as he can stand it. Fuck them both; fuck them and this fucked up world that he does not want to believe he's had any part in shaping.

Still, Dean can't help but speculate about the two; he can only hazard a vague guess here and there about what's happened between he and Cas. He wonders after the tight knot of animosity and tension that keeps them (his angry future-ego and this non-angelic Castiel) tied together even after the world has by all accounts gone to hell. Dean gets his answer (sort of; not really) when he stumbles in upon Cas on his knees, sucking down on the barrel of future-Dean's .45 caliber Colt 1911. The sight forcibly stops him, his mouth going dry when Cas moans, lips stretching wider around the barrel of the gun, the corners of his mouth spit-slick and shiny.

As Dean watches, struck dumb and impossibly turned on, future-Dean cocks the gun and shoves it harder into Cas' mouth. The inflexible metal cuts a careless line across Cas' gums, and a thin trail of blood trickles down over his chin. The unexpected, yet unmistakable bulge in Dean's pants mirrors the stiffness of future-Dean's cock, as he frees it from his jeans and begins to stroke himself. He settles into a quick, unforgiving pace, fucking the gun into Cas' mouth in sync with each rough slide of his fist.

Cas fucks into his own hand, hips twitching forward erratically as he sucks sloppily on the barrel of the gun; the same gun that Dean has shoved into the back of his jeans. He wonders if his fingers would come away slick with Cas' spit, were he to pull it out right then and touch the barrel. It's a transient thought; Dean can't take his eyes off of Cas' mouth, wholly absorbed by what looks like saliva and gun oil smearing the left corner.

He can't help but be horrified and yet disgustingly hard, as Cas pulls off the barrel with an obscene, wet-sounding pop and tongues the muzzle. Cas licks along the slide; Dean hears the scrape of his teeth over the nickel-plated metal. When Cas begins to suck on the trigger guard, his tongue flicks out over the cold metal and catches the callused tip of future-Dean's trigger finger, in the process.

Dean can't help the harsh, ragged breath that explodes out of him, like he's just been sucker-punched by Lucifer. The action seems deeply intimate as compared to the stark and implicit violence that saturated the entire situation; it was in a way incongruous and yet strikingly appropriate. When Cas recklessly repeats the motion, giving an impetuous glance up at future-Dean from beneath the fringe of his eyelashes, Dean sees his future-self shudder almost imperceptibly; future-Dean's mouth goes momentarily lax, and an involuntarily moan escapes him before it can be bitten back.

Almost immediately future-Dean recovers, and though his expression is inscrutable Dean can read bald anger in the tight press of his lips; fury seethes between his future-self's teeth and festers about the rigid set of his mouth like an infected wound. Future-Dean repays Cas' folly by snapping out a harsh, "Get on with it."

Cas simply complies, taking the barrel of the gun back into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks as he sucks hard, like he wanted to suck out a bullet and splatter his brains all over the goddamned place. Future-Dean thrusts the gun down Cas' throat with a vicious twist, coming hard into his own hand with a low, guttural groan when Cas begins to gag and choke.

Dean can feel his future-self's groan curl around the base of his spine.

He must make a sound, some sort of disbelieving noise, because suddenly Cas startles, pulling off the gun and turning his head towards him. Future-Dean jerks too, his hand twitching. The gun goes off inches from Cas' head. Cas pitches forward with a strangled cry, coming hard and striping the dirty floor with a couple jerky twitches of his hips. There's blood and spit on Cas' chin; he presses a hand to his left ear and when he pulls it away, it is wet and red.

Cas looks at him and laughs, loud, desperate, and broken. There's anger in future-Dean's eyes.

Dean backs up and then runs, making it as far as around the corner of the next building over before he's leaning back against it and frantically pulling out his cock. He's so fucking hard, it almost hurts. He jerks himself viciously as he fucks forward into his fist, the image of Cas sucking down the barrel of his .45 emblazoned in his mind. Dean bites the edge of his hand when he comes to hold back his cry, his orgasm intense and draining as he comes, hot and sticky, into his palm.

Dean slumps back against the ramshackle building and tries not to think about what it might mean.

**-VVV-**

"Hey Cas," Dean says, sitting in some shitty motel room in Virginia. The mattress is hard and the sheets smell faintly of mildew. "I want to try something."

Castiel, implicitly trusting, frowns but allows Dean to press the muzzle of his .45 against his temple as he kneels and sucks Dean's cock.

(The End.)


End file.
